A Proper Burial
by Viniloversus
Summary: Hedwig had been his best friend for the longest time. His first friend, in fact. His first gift, too. And it was time for him to say goodbye...


Hello Beautiful Word! Again, another submission for the Words and Titles Competitions, this time for the word Bury.

So... what can I say? Hedwig was my favourite familiar of them all and her death hit me pretty hard (It was years ago, yes, but the feeling remained), so... I wrote this little ficlet.

English is not a language that I use often, so please be so kind to report any anomalies so i can correct them.

 **Disclaimer: None of this is mine, they belong to J.K Rowling.**

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Harry stared down at the snowy white feather in his hand. It was one of the feathers of the wings, long as his middle finger; there were no black spots on the length, even though Hedwig had had some on her back and wings. It had collected dust and was in a pretty poor shape, though it was the only thing that remained of his most loyal friend, now that they had left her body behind so Harry saw it as his most precious treasure. He turned it over, allowing its softness to caress his fingers. Hedwig had always hated to have her feathers ruffled, so he had seldom touched them. He swallowed, feeling his eyes water. He could almost envision her flying back to him, landing gracefully on his forearm, nipping affectionately on his fingers, on his ears. Almost. But the vision was swallowed whole by the memory of her snowy white feathers hit by that perverse green light, her body dropping like a rag doll into the bottom of her cage immediately. Now all he had of his friend was a feather; a dirty old feather that he had somehow managed to snatch before they had had to leave her behind. It was difficult to imagine that a feather could be all there was left of his magnificent owl. His first gift ever, his first friend, the only one to ever know all that happened in Privet Drive, to _suffer_ alongside him reduced to a snowy white feather too deteriorated to make into a proper quill.

He took a deep breath, hoping that no one would notice his absence from his room at the Burrow so late at night. It was just a few minutes, just a few; he needed no more than five minutes to do what he needed. So he could give his friend, or at least some part of her, the burial she so rightfully deserved. He walked into the chilly night, the feather held carefully in his right hand, his trainers sloshing through the wet grass as he went.

When he was far enough from the house, far enough that he could actually feel the borders of the wards brushing against his skin; he knelt and started digging with his bare hands into the ground. The ground was thick and it got under his nails, but he felt as though a little of dirt wasn't much to give for a friend that had been starved because of him, killed because of him.

He had gotten his family killed, because he had been born. Cedric killed because he had wanted to be noble and share his victory. Sirius... he swallowed back the tears that wanted to come so badly when thinking of his godfather. Sirius had been killed because he had been too arrogant to bother to learn Occlumensy. And Hedwig had been killed just because Voldemort knew it would make him suffer. All those deaths, and who knew how many more to come, because of him. Guilty, guilty, guilty

It should have been him. All the time, him. They all had died because of him, for him.

He hadn't been to Sirius burial, nor Cedric's and he couldn't bury her whole body, but he could bury this feather for her and he would be damned if he did it with anything else but his own bare hands. It was the least he could do for her after being such a lousy owner; he had neglected her by leaving her almost nonstop in the Owl tower without visiting her and often made her to pay all his problems and bad moods, and still she was astoundingly loyal to him.

Soon the hole was big enough to put the feather inside and he deposited it carefully inside, quickly covering it with the dirt he had removed before. After he was done, he remained there with both hands over the dirt, still crouched, remembering.

 _The first time he had seen Hedwig after Hagrid had bought her for him... The very first time she had nipped at his fingers... Feeding her scraps of his meal during summers, talking to her because she knew better than anyone how he felt; caged in a place he hated more than anything... Her hooting soothing him through the nightmares after Cedric's and Sirius' deaths... Her_ _ **dying**_ _for him..._

He stayed there, until there was little time left for dawn, wishing that he could put something in there, like a sort of gravestone, something on which he could write all he wished he could say. In the end, he put nothing and just turned away from the small hole, his heart burning.

"Goodbye, Hedwig. "He whispered and then went back to the house.

He would start his task tomorrow, alone.

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If you are a little confused about that last line, I'll explain; there was a time where Harry wanted to go on the Horcruxes hunt all on his own and that is referring to that. Thankfully Ron and Hermione were able to convince him otherwise.

So... leave a review, please?, pretty please? I'll give you virtual cookies!


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